Lahore's Government House did not look like a place that could ever flood.
From the carriage drive, it rose pale and self-assured against the late afternoon sky, its red-brick wings framed by clipped lawns and obedient hedges. The monsoon clouds lay heavy over the city, but here the water knew its limits: it stayed in the stone fountains, in the channels, in the polished glasses on silver trays. The wildness of the season stopped politely at the gate.
Inside, ceiling fans stirred the humid air into slow, deliberate circles. Policemen in crisp khaki stood at fixed points like punctuation marks. Clerks in white coats walked briskly along the corridors, files tucked like shields under their arms.
At the end of one long corridor, outside a high teak door, two men waited.
They were listed in the service books as "clerks seconded to Special Branch," but everyone who mattered knew what that meant. Informants. Field observers. Spies.
Their boots still carried a crust of Montgomery mud. One had a thin line of dried dust on his collar; the other's sleeves were faintly stained where he had wiped sweat in a hurry. Between them, under the arm of the older man, rested a bulging leather file tied with a red ribbon.
They had been summoned to report. And reports, in this building, were not merely read. They were weighed.
The younger of the two shifted his weight, then stopped himself. His fingers twitched slightly against his trouser seam.
"Don't fidget," the elder murmured without looking at him. "He notices everything."
Before the younger man could reply, the door opened.
The Governor's aide—a thin, angular Englishman with a clipboard welded to his hand—glanced at their faces, then at the file.
"Inside," he said. "Both of you."
Inside the Governor's Office
His Excellency Sir Geoffrey de Montmorency, Governor of Punjab, did not waste posture on theatrics.
He sat behind a wide teak desk, neither slouched nor rigid, spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose as he read a typed dispatch. His hair was more silver than steel now, but his moustache remained military-precise. On the wall behind him hung a large map of Punjab, the railway lines marked in bold red strokes that carved the province into obedient sections—as if the land's primary purpose was to carry trains.
He did not immediately look up as they entered.
"You're late," he said, eyes still on the paper. The tone was deceptively mild, but the words landed with the neat finality of a gavel. "The floods receded days ago. I expected your report sooner."
The older spy cleared his throat.
"Our apologies, Your Excellency," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Some roads were still under water. We had to circle through the canal bunds."
Sir Geoffrey grunted once, neither accepting nor rejecting the excuse.
"And the work at Sandalbar?" he asked. "How bad is it?"
There was an assumption in the question: disaster was taken for granted; the only unknown was its scale.
The two men exchanged a quick glance.
"It is…" The older spy hesitated, searching for the right word. "Unusual, Sir."
That made the Governor finally raise his eyes.
"Unusual?" he repeated. "Explain."
First Impressions of Sandalbar
The older spy untied the red ribbon, opened the file, and laid the first page flat on the desk. Neat Urdu script and English annotations filled the sheet in parallel lines.
"Sir," he began carefully, "Sandalbar Estate Headquarters—under the control of one Muhammad Ali Jinnah—is no ordinary flood relief point. When we arrived, we expected standard conditions: overcrowding, open defecation, fly infestation, uncontrolled disease, panic, and some degree of rioting. However…"
He stopped again, as if hesitant to contradict the Governor's expectations and his own experience.
"However?" Sir Geoffrey prompted.
"However," the spy said, "what we found was a… functioning system. Order. Discipline. Cleanliness. Latrines more organized than in many cantonments. Ash bowls placed outside. A water filtration tank with clear rules and signage. Farabi volunteers patrolling in shifts. Makeshift classrooms operating under a neem tree. Women being taught hygiene. Children being taught numbers."
He swallowed.
"Everything, Sir… controlled."
The word hung in the room like faint smoke.
Sir Geoffrey leaned back slowly, spectacles catching the light.
"Controlled by whom?" he asked.
"The day-to-day appears to be managed by a British lady doctor—Evelyn—and a nurse, Mary," the spy replied. "But it is understood by all present that this is 'Jinnah Sahib's' system."
The Governor's eyebrow twitched.
"The Farabis?" he asked. "That group again?"
"Yes, Sir," the younger spy put in, finding his voice. "Except, with respect… they are not behaving like agitators or fighters. They are behaving like… local police. Or, at least, like very determined chowkidars with rifles."
"Administrators," the older spy added quietly.
The word was not thrown lightly. Administration was the Crown's sacred domain.
Sir Geoffrey's fingers, resting on the edge of the desk, curled in slightly.
What They Saw and Did Not See
"Continue," he ordered.
The older spy turned a page.
"Sir," he said, "the villagers obey instructions there more strictly than most government labourers we've seen. No one uses the open fields. No foul puddles remain. They have dug drainage lines everywhere—small channels leading water away from living areas into soakage pits. Even animal waste is collected and buried."
Sir Geoffrey frowned.
"That is not typical rural behaviour," he said.
"No, Sir," the spy agreed. "Precisely."
"What of signs of agitation?" the Governor asked. "Hidden weapons? Secret gatherings? Political symbols?"
"None, Sir," the younger man admitted, discomfort tightening his throat. "We looked. No Congress flags, no League pamphlets, no slogans painted on walls. No night meetings that we could detect. No armed drills."
"A camp full of peasants," Sir Geoffrey said dryly, "in a moment of crisis, and not a single slogan. Remarkable."
He tapped a knuckle lightly against the desk.
"Too clean," he muttered.
"Sir?" the younger spy ventured.
"Too clean," the Governor repeated, more clearly. "Too orderly. I know rural Punjab, Mr…?"
"Chand," the younger man supplied.
"Yes. Mr Chand. I know rural Punjab. Filth, quarrels, petty theft, and a certain degree of chaos are the natural state of any large group of villagers herded together. If they are behaving like trained civic workers, it means someone has imposed a system on them. Systems imply power. Power implies ambition."
He did not raise his voice. The room cooled anyway.